


to be with you

by bravely (commovente)



Series: iwaoi week june 2015 [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Hotarubi no Mori e AU, M/M, Slow Burn, iwa-chan is a human, oikawa's a spirit of the mountain who can't be touched or else he'll disappear, so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commovente/pseuds/bravely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>iwaizumi remembers his summers in birthdays spent with Tooru — from the beginning, ‘till the very end</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be with you

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 3 of iwaoi week --  
> the prompt being: iwaizumi's birthday
> 
> i don't really know what to say here, this all just spiralled rapidly beyond my control whelp.
> 
> [based on a drabble i wrote a couple days ago in the same AU from tooru's POV](http://aobaejousai.tumblr.com/post/121067042799/iwaoi-32-please) and the manga 'hotarubi no mori e'

_age: 7_

Hajime has always been good at finding things. The best hiding spots in hide and seek, the lesser-known bug catching haunts with all the rare stag beetles, the circulating locations around the house where his mother hides the family’s sweets (Hajime doesn’t really like eating them, isn’t much of a sweet tooth himself; he’s grown into the neighbourhood kids’ hero by giving all his candy to them, instead) — Iwaizumi Hajime is good at finding things, a real seven year old, intrepid explorer extraordinaire.

Which is why getting lost in the forests of the mountain the summer he first visits his uncle in the country is particularly annoying. After all, how exactly are you supposed to find something, he reasons, when the thing you’re trying to find is yourself? Each path is winding and pebbled, trees festooned with birdsong and shimmering breezes; the trees themselves are gnarled and strong, a mountain of wise, wizened hands stretching into the sky.

Hajime notices it and he doesn’t. His eyes flicker from left to right, drinking in the vivid green panorama surrounding him, registers the utter lack of familiar markers he’d left as he walked along (he might be a kid, but he’s not an idiot; he’d been leaving trails from the spare packets of milk bread he’d found in Uncle’s pantry). He walks a little more, slightly unnerved by the hairs slowly creeping up at the back of his neck — in summer, too — the further he walks, but pays it very little mind, figuring that if the gods insist he must be lost, on his seventh birthday of all days, surely they wouldn’t kill him off while they’re at it, too.

Sighing, Hajime plonks himself against a tree when he reaches the next bend in the path, weighing the pros and cons of trailing _off_ the path, in a straight line north and downhill, where he knows the town is, can see the trails of smoke and hear the muffled bustle of townspeople, stark against the whistle of plants, bubbling streams and humming cicadas.

Gravel and twigs crunch somewhere to his left, their impact awkward and clumsy. Hajime narrows his eyes. The gods might not kill him, probably, but what about someone else? And who’s to say it’s not a _different_ god looking over this particular mountain? He’d seen the shrine on his way up the steps, derelict and forgotten, sparing it no more attention than necessary in sweeping under the gap between shrine and ground for any forgotten treasures (a rock, bright green muddled with brown. Hajime’d pocketed it for later, closer inspection).

Reaching into his pocket for the rock now, Hajime tosses it to himself, up and down, deliberating. The branches rustle, the movement of the leaves gentle but deliberate, and, most importantly, much closer than before. Hajime tosses the rock at it.

Or, more aptly, _him_ , as the case turns out to be, Hajime thinks, watching a guy (probably a high schooler) with suspicion but mostly distaste, spotting some of his milk bread markers spilling out from the cover of the trees along with him. “Ow, ow, ow,” the guy whines, “that was really rude, you know?”

Hajime knows. He’s also firmly unimpressed, and says so. “You ate my milk bread markers,” he accuses, narrowing his eyes at the stranger. He’s tall, almost frustratingly so, really, with fluffy brown hair and wide eyes to match; Hajime reckons he’d have been the biggest crybaby if he were Hajime’s age. The stranger blinks, soft and slow, and Hajime snorts. “Cough ‘em back up,” he says, sticking out a palm as he glares. “But milk bread is my favourite,” the stranger explains, like this honestly has anything to do with Hajime’s _point_ (it really doesn’t), “and I haven’t had any since —“ a pause, “— I can’t even remember.”

“Look, mister,” Hajime begins as he stalks straight towards the guy, “I really wouldn’t care usually but I’m lost now so give them _back_ —“ he makes a grab for the spare pieces, misses, “ — now.”

The guy pouts, and Hajime tacks on,rather crankily, “…please.”

And, unexpectedly, the guy grins, flashing out a peace sign with his hands. “Well, I’m Tooru,” he sing-songs in response. A vein twitches in Hajime’s head, and he thinks _it is too hot and I am too lost to deal with you today_.

Then he thinks, _and on my birthday, too_. Hajime tackles Tooru.

Tooru dodges, stepping cleanly to the side. Hajime is annoyed. “Why do you keep doing that?” he whines, uncaring how petty he must sound; he just wants to find his way back. But then Tooru says, simply, “Because I don’t want to disappear.”

A beat. Then, accusingly, “what?”

Tooru looks at Hajime. Hajime looks back. “You’re a human, no?” he continues. Hajime tilts his head, _well, obviously_ , and Tooru nods, once, twice, like he’d just cleared the air between them entirely.

(He hadn’t).

Tooru must recognise this, because he continues. “I’m a spirit of this mountain, you see,” he gestures vaguely at the space around them, “kinda like a ghost. Basically, I used to be a human but then I died, and so tragic an event it was that the wind sang my name, the birds all threatened to flutter away, so the wise old trees decided to bring me back. However, vanish once more I will if ever I am to touch a human,” Tooru finishes his story with a theatrical flourish of his hands.

Promptly, Hajime says, “you’re a liar,” though his voice trails off at the end, not entirely convinced in the declaration. There was something weird about the guy, after all, not just because he was wearing clothes more suited for cooler weather. Hajime is good at finding things, and he’s found something about Tooru; he just has to figure out what it is, exactly.

Ignoring Hajime’s accusation, Tooru instead reaches for one end of Hajime’s bug catching net, now hanging limply in one hand. Tooru says, “keep holding the other end — I’ll walk you back to the mountain steps.”

Probably against his better judgment, Hajime does, walking maybe one, two paces behind Tooru, who was swinging the net lightly between them, humming. And, somewhere between that bend in the path and the mountain steps leading back to town, Hajime started whistling, a cheerful little tune, an apology for earlier anger, and Tooru sang a bit louder, incorporating the whistles into his song. Maybe it was his imagination, but Hajime imagined he could hear the trees murmur along with them.

They reach the steps, which Tooru announces with an abrupt halt, saying, “and here we are…”

“Iwaizumi,” Hajime finishes for him, because helpful or not, he still shouldn’t give Tooru his full name. You don’t give spirits important stuff like that; everyone knows that.

Apparently Tooru does, too, because he looks at Hajime for a beat after, as if waiting for the next part. When Hajime doesn’t give it to him, he smiles, bright and broad, which bugs Hajime for some other reason he doesn’t know how to word, before answering, “Well, then, I guess this is it, Iwa-chan.”

The vein on Hajime’s forehead twitches again, and he thinks, _annoying. Definitely annoying._

But Hajime just nods, tossing out an “I’ll give you something as thanks tomorrow then. Later, Tooru,” with a wave of his hand. The trees murmur again. He only looks back once, almost completely down the steps, but Tooru’s already gone.

He leaves a packet of milk bread by the shrine the next day, anyway.

 

_age: 8_

Hajime’s back in town again the following summer. Almost immediately after unpacking and asking Uncle if he didn’t need any help around the house (because you should always be kind to people who take care of you), Hajime’s traipsing down the road, away from town, and up the steps spiralling up from the base of the mountain.

“Tooru, I’m back,” he calls, more out of habit than any expectation of an answer. He’d returned to the forest almost everyday the previous summer, and seen neither hide nor hair of Tooru since that first day. He knows he’s there, though, hears his hushed whispers — to other spirits? Hajime isn’t sure — and hears his quiet songs whenever Hajime stops to think. And when it’s time for him to go back, he sees the flash of green and brown, almost effervescent in the light, and knows that it’s Tooru leading him back home.

But when his eighth birthday comes back around and threatens to go without seeing Tooru even once, Hajime decides he’s had enough. He’d had it all planned out, leaving not a single packet of milk bread the last week he’s been up, stockpiling them instead into the pile he now lays in front of where he sits, crossing his arms with what he decides is a rather well-deserved, magnanimous huff.

While a small part of him hopes, prays, Tooru isn’t as simple as this, the larger, anxious-to-see-the-simple-dummy part of him is very pleased when, not even minutes later, Tooru’s bounding out from some distant shrubbery, plonking himself across Hajime, the stack of milk bread sitting between them.

“Hello, Iwa-chan,” he beams, already reaching out to tear into a packet, and Hajime takes it back, any relief (and there was quite a lot of it, his brain supplies, much to his annoyance) gone at no further acknowledgment about Tooru’s almost year long game of hide and seek. (This sparks a thought in Hajime, wondering if it was, in fact, hide and seek, and Tooru was playing around, trying to be hard to get. Hajime snorts. He wouldn’t put it past him at all. It does not, however, mean that Hajime’s gonna let Tooru _get away with it,_ no way, not at all).

“Tooru,” he begins, “where do you think you’ve been all this time?”. He cringes a little at the mischievous flutter of eyelashes Tooru does at this query, straightening his back and clearing his throat, unnerving the hell out of Hajime when he says, “waiting for you to find me!”

Flatly, Hajime responds, “well, I found you.”

“Of course,” Tooru continues, ignoring Hajime’s irritation completely, “so now I assume you deserve a reward.”

This pricks Hajime back up a little. He’s only eight, and rewards are rare, terribly elusive things when you’re as fearless ( _reckless_ , his mother usually corrects) as he is. Tooru stands up — pouting at Hajime’s snort as he watches Tooru pile the rest of the milk bread into his shirt — and Hajime follows, already slipping the other end of his bug-catching net into one of Tooru’s hands, smirking at the pleased, conciliatory noise Tooru huffs out in response.

They’ve been walking for a little while — almost skipping past stones the colour of the sea and streams green as the trees above, darting around trails of shadow Hajime swears he can hear speak, maybe even caught the briefest snatches of catlike amber eyes peering back at him — when Tooru says, “it’s really special, what you’re gonna see today,” at the same time Hajime blurts out, “it’s my birthday, you know.”

Tooru stops, and Hajime glides to a halt, too, remembering the abrupt manner Tooru’d ceased movement the first time he walked Hajime back, replicating the motions smoothly enough that he felt almost no jolt at all.

Turning, Hajime watches on with amusement as Tooru blusters, “well, then, I guess you can call it a present from me,” quipping back, “you know, Tooru, for someone who should probably be in high school, you’re unexpectedly shy.” This, however, causes a faint, distant haze to cloud over Tooru’s normally clear, observant eyes, and Hajime quickly tries to take it back. “But what do I know,” he tacks on hastily, “let’s go see your thing, already.”

Tooru’s eyes clear out after that, even if a little of that odd mist remains. “Sure,” he agrees, peering at Hajime with a look he can’t call anything else but _grateful_ , dimples peeking hesitantly at the corners of his cheeks. But he starts walking before Hajime can comment on anything else, and then the moment’s passed and he can’t remember what it was he was going to say, anyway.

They stop smack in the middle of another forest trail — not one Hajime recalls walking down before — and Tooru turns to him, sliding his end of the net back until Hajime has a firm grip of it entirely again. “Okay, so” Tooru starts, taking a breath, “this is a little weird, but. You trust me, right?” Hajime rolls his eyes but lets them fall shut anyway, the wordless show of faith probably reassuring Tooru a lot more than anything Hajime could’ve said.

A breath, then something funny passes over his left eye. Hajime blinks, trying to clear it out, but then he spies Tooru watching him, silently, expectantly (hopefully?) and he stops. The he notices it — Tooru’s eyes, both brown and deep and warm before, and how his right eye now looks a pale, dull green — the same colour of Hajime’s own. Tooru laughs a little then, says, “here,” as he parts the foliage on their left, revealing a lake, still as a mirror and undisturbed as glass. Hajime peers into its depths, started to discover the change in his own eyes. Where his left remains the same shade of green as Tooru’s right now is, his own right eye is brown, soft and familiar as the shade staring out of Tooru’s remaining left eye. He blinks again, then inhales sharply at the sight he now sees.

From his left, everything is the same — clear sky, heavy trees, Tooru’s reassuring (now, when did that happen?) presence in the periphery. From his right, though, everything is strange, familiar and not all at once, overwhelming. The sky from the lake onwards is tinted every colour, an endless prism wrapping itself around most of the mountain; the trees starker, leaves whispering distinct words if only he listened hard enough. He sees the other creatures of the forest quickly now, their darting looks at Tooru accusing before they skim quickly out of his sight. Then, turning, Hajime looks at Tooru himself, unsure if he’s relieved or disappointed to find that Tooru looks exactly the way Hajime remembers him.

“Happy birthday, Iwa-chan,” Tooru whispers, and Hajime feels his heart soar, heavy to hold in his chest but easy to carry inside himself all the same. “Thanks, Tooru,” he answers back, quietly, choosing not to comment on the way his words cause Tooru to swallow, like maybe he’s having a hard time keeping his heart in place, too.

Hajime wonders the last time someone’s thanked Tooru for anything. Then he wonders the last time Tooru’s had anything to be thankful for.

It’s with the greatest difficulty that Hajime stops himself from reaching to take Tooru’s hand, walk back down the mountain with their arms swinging in time, the way he does with a friend when they’re upset. Tooru does him one better, though, reaching into his pocket for the stone Hajime tossed at him a year ago, offering the other end for Hajime to hold, as close to the comfort of holding hands they’re likely to get.

When they reach the steps again, Hajime lets go of the rock, stopping multiple times on his way down to look back, fingers stuttering and eyes thrumming with something unexplainable when he sees Tooru staring back every time he turns.

And when Hajime comes back the next day, and the day after, Tooru meets him at the stairs and guides him back when Hajime has to leave, like it’s something he’s always done and always will do, and neither of them mention again the days Tooru only kept watch over him from afar, distant and solitary and waiting.

Because he isn’t, anymore.

Not now that Hajime’s found him.

 

_age:9_

Like most of the grand encounters in Hajime’s life to date, the accident happens on his ninth birthday. He meets Tooru at the top of the mountain steps as per usual, pretends he doesn’t feel the angry blush spreading from the tips of his ears to the top of his spine when Tooru begins to sing (loudly, and intentionally off-key) “Happy Birthday,” the instant he spotted Hajime making his way up the steps.

“Happy birthday, Iwa-chan,” he repeats blithely when Hajime’s finally within regular speaking range, “how old are you now?”

“Nine, and thanks,” Hajime says, taking the other end of the stone Tooru offers him as they set off, fingers now instinctively skirting around Tooru’s own as he does. He knows Tooru’s seventeen; the real question being for how long. Hajime’s never had the guts to ask — he’s not scared of much, not really, but he really hates it when Tooru gets that faraway, cloudy look in his eyes, like he’s remembering something from when he was alone, or even before that.

Hajime hates seeing it on Tooru’s face, and he hates being the one to put it there even more, so one of the very first things he promised himself was to never push Tooru anymore than Tooru was ready (or willing) to push himself.

He wonders where they’re going, today; Tooru had started showing him all his favourite places once he and Tooru had done that weird, single eye swap (“one of my great, many talents,” Tooru had enthused when Hajime kept prodding him into explaining how he’d done it, “maybe one day you, too, will wake up and naturally comprehend the truth of it — but then again, maybe not,” dodging the pebble Hajime had thrown at him, having previously been using it to skip stones along that mirror lake. It refused to ripple in the slightest, no matter how hard or how skilfully Hajime or Tooru threw it, remaining even today a mystery far more baffling, in Hajime’s opinion, than his and Tooru’s matching eyes). There were a lot; Hajime figures Tooru must have been around for a long time to know the mountain as well as he does.

A summer later and Hajime was still learning all sorts of secret spots from the mountain, exercising his finding abilities to newer, greater heights daily. He’d even started to develop his own favourite haunts, too — a cliff-face you can only get to by hopping up a series of interlocking boulders, but offered the highest, most widespread view of the landscape save for the peak itself once you did; a cavern hidden beneath one of the larger ponds, the one where most of the minor streams intersected, bubbling over into a little fountain at its centre; the meadow filled with flowers Hajime’s never seen in his life, hidden between shadowy, blue clusters of vines and evergreens taller than any of the other trees in the mountain, where the wind grew to learn his name and the birds join in his and Tooru’s songs.

He likes the little alcove, too, where he and Tooru nap the afternoons away in, sometimes. It’s small, secret and secure, off the second fork in one of lesser known paths along the left of the mountain. There, the grass and trees surrounding them are laced with flowers, the air unusually quiet and free from birdsong, making it a prime spot for sleeping. Hajime’s woken up before Tooru more than once, amusing himself trying to wake him up by showering blades of grass and velvety petals, letting them dust over Tooru’s cheeks, pooling across his shoulders.

Today, however, is somewhere different; Hajime doesn’t remember ever visiting this place before. It’s a little bit before the cliff-face, but on a trail slightly to the side of it. It’s full of trees as big as the evergreens, but branched tall and wide instead of lean and imposing, shooting straight for the skies above.

Tooru’s eyes shine, and Hajime thinks his probably do, too, spending the better part of the day climbing the trees, Hajime stopping here and there to ogle the different leaves and strange flowers, Tooru pausing in turn to laugh at Hajime’s reactions, sharing what he knows about the various flora they encounter.

Later in the afternoon, though, when Hajime’s had his fill of discoveries for the day and Tooru starts to dart along branches quicker, restless and flighty, they start to play tag.

In hindsight, this was probably not one of their greatest ideas, though it was certainly one of the most enjoyable, skimming along branches and slipping through foliage, trusting in the wind to boost them up when necessary, chiming little tunes as it sweeps them ever higher. That is, until Hajime catches sight of one of the other spirits of the mountain on his way down from the tree, face as startled as Hajime feels, inadvertently causing him to step just a bit too far for his foot to land on the following branch. Having already removed his hand from the branch above him, Hajime could do nothing else but yell as he came hurtling down, the leaves stirring in alarm, wind crying out in horror as he fell —

— nearly into Tooru’s upturned, waiting arms, face fearful and pale the second he and Hajime registered what he was doing, Tooru dropping his arms like a cut puppet’s strings, Hajime curling his arms over his head as he bounces slightly onto the ground with a rough, pained “unf.”

He supposes he must have blacked out for a few seconds, because when he blinks his eyes, trying for some sense of clarity, Tooru’s teary face is all he sees, hands fussing the air around him like he could transmit his concern — made palpable by the otherworldly sentience of the forest — into a cure for Hajime’s pulsing head.

The hammering, steady ache is nothing on Hajime’s anger, though, throbbing and hot and white under his eyelids, remembering how ready Tooru had been to catch him, soften his fall with what little, unpredictable life he clung to from the mountain gods.

 _“Why,”_ he hisses, meaning for it to come out louder but faltering at the tremble in Tooru’s fingers, pre-emptive tremors wracking down his spine, probably at Hajime’s pained by unmistakable fuming expression.

“Because,” Tooru mumbles back, apparently unable to finish whatever he was about to say because he finishes his sentence instead with, “I won’t let it happen again.”

Hajime wonders if he means Hajime’s fall or the near-successful attempt at saving him, but what comes out of his mouth instead is a strained, “you can’t, Tooru, you can’t ever touch me, you _know_ that,” cracking at the end along with the rest of his brief, hateful anger.

Tooru smiles, and it’s a horrible sight, shaky and self-deprecating. “Not even to save you,” he confirms, and Hajime’s left to ask himself why it is that Tooru’s voice sounds even more broken than Hajime’s own even though it didn’t crack once, steady and slow in articulating his half-expressed thoughts.

But Hajime just nods, and Tooru nods back, hands flailing as he says, helplessly, “even though you’re hurting, Iwa-chan.”

“I know,” Hajime responds, because he does, and what else is there to say when it’s Tooru who looks like he’s hurting the most of all.

Tooru reaches for the end of Hajime’s net when they walk home that day, but all the extra step of distance did was emphasise the tight set of Tooru’s jaw, the slight hunch of his shoulders that said _sorry sorry sorry_ when he bid Hajime goodbye.

 _He’s never said goodbye before_ , Hajime thinks as he walks down the stairs. _But then again, I didn’t say ‘see you later,’ either_.

 

_age: 10_

Hajime’s parents don’t let him visit his uncle that summer, and probably rightly so, considering the fuss he’d kicked up stumbling into town after his fall. But, it also meant he didn’t get to see Tooru, and so Hajime spends the better part of his summer staring out the window, not wanting to spend the days completely indoors, but not completely able to forget the look on Tooru’s face when he saw him last.

The feel of his voice, distant and sad, the audible equivalent for misty eyes and faraway attentions.

He’d like to think Tooru’s alright by himself, that he isn’t still sulking and taking his own hurt out at himself (never at Hajime; Hajime thinks Tooru’s convinced himself nothing could ever be Hajime’s fault, which is both stupidly endearing and incredibly alarming) but he knows Tooru, knows that time is odd and works, _feels_ differently for him. Because he doesn’t age, he doesn’t really change, and Hajime’s not really sure what that means, exactly, just that Tooru doesn’t get over things as easily or as quickly as he does.

So he spends his tenth birthday propped up at his table, planning out various ways he can wheedle his parents into letting him visit the mountainside town for his next one, his uncle’s mailed birthday present sitting, still wrapped, beside it.

A minute passes. Then another. Hajime gives up, tearing hands through his hair as he shakes his head from side to side, frustrated and fidgety and confused.

He side eyes the present, cracks his knuckles. Looks away, clenching and unclenching his fingers. Hajime gives in, pulling the parcel towards him before messily tearing off the wrapping paper from a clean, fresh smelling book.

Hajime almost tosses the thing out the window he’s gotten so very acquainted with over the summer.

It’s a book about Greek history, full of mythology and heroes and likely all sorts of other things his Uncle’s over the moon for. Hajime? Not so much. He’s not the most avid reader, nor is history his strongest point (actually, it’s not far off from being his weakest, as his report cards dutifully like to remind him).

He flips through the pages, absentminded and inattentive, studiously ignoring the reasonable voice in his head telling him he’s an idiot for taking out his frustrations on a book. That’s when he sees it, turning back a page or two until he relocates what had caught his eye — his birthday, the tenth of June, bold and blocky, declaring itself as the date of…he scans the page…Alexander the Great’s death?

 _How sad,_ Hajime thinks, reading through the page’s first couple paragraphs despite himself. Skimming toward the header outlined “Death and legacy,” Hajime reads about how the once great king, hailed as the best conqueror to walk the face of the earth (whether or not that’s supposed to be a compliment, he’s not really sure) died in land far away from his place of birth.

 _Like Tooru,_ his brain pipes up again, though he’s not really sure where Tooru was born, just that he died and thus came to reside on the mountain permanently. He’s actually not sure when Tooru’s birthday is, if Tooru even remembers it (he probably does, but who can say for sure).

Hajime stares at the page, _June 10_ staring back. A thought begins to form at the back of his head, fuzzy and not really making very much sense, but the longer he stares at the page, at June 10 and what’s probably a bust of Alexander the Great’s head, the more concretely it shapes itself in his mind. He thinks about Tooru saying he stays in the forest because the trees remembered him, and the wind knew his name.

He thinks about his own birthday, announcing the death of some apparently famous dead person; then he thinks about the unknown date of Tooru’s birthday, and the way he lives his life, forgotten by all but a supernatural forest and some kid who doesn’t know when to draw the line, decide that enough is enough and leave sleeping, not-quite-dead-but-not-really-alive individuals alone.

Hajime looks at the date next to his birthday for the date of Alexander’s, takes note of _July 20_ before nodding decisively, shutting the book and heading outside, leaving his bug-catching net by the door as he does.

 

_age: 11_

Hajime’s eleventh summer signals a return to the mountain and, by default, Tooru. It had taken a lot more effort than he’s willing to admit, involving long days filled with less bug catching and hanging out with friends to push his marks up high enough to work as a convincing persuasive weapon against his parents (freaking out all his teachers in the process at how rapidly he improved, when he chose to apply himself).

But it had worked, and now here he is, a little bit later than he usually visits (his parents had him stay home for his birthday, just in case, and. Here Tooru clearly is not, not a trace of him on the steps, even with Hajime’s right spirit-seeing eye; not a peep of his voice, nor his name in the birds’ conversations with each other.

Not even in the face of all the milk bread he could fit into his pockets, open and waiting in front of Hajime’s expectant gaze. He frowns, picking up two packets as he stands, leaving the rest where they are as he stalks off in search of the elusive Tooru himself.

The trees seem to know something, but Tooru must’ve bribed them shut, the moron, because they fall conspicuously silent when Hajime shoots them a glance. He even implores the wind, receiving only a wispy, comforting murmur of Tooru’s name before settling into silence, as well.

_What the hell, Tooru._

And so begins Hajime’s unasked, unappreciated trip down memory lane, stomping throughout the forest, trying to find not himself this time, but someone else equally dumb and reckless. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he supposes his current pursuit is probably not the safest thing he could be doing alone, but it’s only a small, passing thought, pushed together with the niggling taunt to just leave Tooru alone since that’s what he clearly wants.

He skips up rocks to find empty cliff-faces; tosses several stones to an impassive lake; even bounds up the branches of those tall, tall trees, making it halfway up before the leaves hiss in alarm and the wind nudges him gently to the ground before he can fall again.

Buzzing, pink and purple spirits titter as morning slips into midday, sweat pooling at the base of Hajime’s neck from exertion and irritation. Shadowy, many tailed lurkers dwell from gaps between trees, watching him carefully as he walks by, sometimes multiple times, ducking back into certain paths more than once as he changes his destinations.

Eventually he gives up, ripping open a packet of milk bread after a particularly aggravating exchange with a sapling, which had chastised him when he paused before it, telling him not to “go off and make Tooru quiet again,” simmering into passive-aggressive reminders not to touch Tooru if he tries to get away.

“I’d need to actually find him first, you know,” Hajime had sighed out, not quite suppressing the flutters of guilt plucking restlessly at his insides.

It’s mid-afternoon when he finally stumbles across Tooru, not even intentionally, and Hajime isn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved to find the lanky ghost curled up and sleeping in their little alcove. He supposes he went for the latter when all he does upon finding Tooru is to drop himself gently beside him, and it’s just the same as it’s always been, Hajime fiddling with the summer grasses, raising his fingers to brush against the soft petals the breeze blows past him, settling on top of Tooru’s nose and curling into the fluff of his hair.

Eventually Tooru stirs awake, eyelashes batting as he smacks his lips sleepily, teeny grin tugging up at the familiar sight of Hajime waiting for him to wake up. Hajime almost falls for it, too, the comfort of habit between them, but then Tooru’s eyes flicker back and forth in alarm, knocking his head against a tree, which creaks in a huff and does absolutely nothing to help as he tries to sit up.

Hajime’s well ahead of him, though, tossing the other pack of milk bread square at Tooru’s face before he can scamper off who knows where. Tooru squawks, and Hajime tries not to smile, firmly sticking to his resolve that he and Tooru need to have a Talk.

A resolve that is very quickly slipping away when Tooru whines out an “ow, Iwa-chan,” even as his teeth rip into the packet for his favourite food. _Strong_ , Hajime thinks, _you need to be strong._

Instead, Tooru peers up at him, shoulders hunched and cheeks stuffed full of milk bread, and Hajime spills out, “happy birthday,” before smacking his head against the tree he’s slouched against. The tree rumbles against him, affronted, shaking leaves and small twigs (mostly twigs) onto his head in response.

Hajime groans, shaking them out of his hair.

Then he looks up at Tooru, and Tooru looks at him.

Tooru says, “but how did you know, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime’s cheeks burn. He’s not really sure how to say that he doesn’t, he just stumbled upon the date because apparently he was on born on the day Alexander the Great died and the guy reminded him of Tooru for reasons even Hajime isn’t sure of, and that he’d basically assigned Tooru a birthday that matches his own in a fit of emotional nonsense about being forgotten and being remembered. Hajime really doesn’t know how to articulate any of that at all, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Tooru’s gotten pretty good at reading Hajime, though, as good as Hajime is at reading him, and the wondering, pleased look on his face the longer Hajime stays silent bodes nothing good, nothing good at all.

Now Tooru’s talking again, bubbling over with things like _tell me, Iwa-chan_ and _did you miss me_ or _I talked to the trees about you, you know_ and yes, actually, Hajime most definitely knows, but then he finishes the thought with _they said you’d come back, so I figured it was alright even if it did hurt while you were gone_ and, oh.

Right, Hajime remembers. They were supposed to have a Talk.

Steeling his shoulders and drawing in a deep, deep breath, Hajime exhales, shuddering out a “why didn’t you answer when I called for you?” fully expecting either silence, or something glib and annoying like _because I was napping, obviously, have you gone blind, too, Iwa-chan?_

But Tooru answers him seriously, with another question. “Why didn’t you say you’d be back when you left?” and then Hajime’s looking away and, distantly, he feels Tooru’s gaze skitter elsewhere, too, neither answering, neither of them probably aware how to answer.

“I guess,” Hajime finally settles on, “I guess I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.”

Which isn’t a lie, exactly, but it’s not the full truth either, which he hurriedly tacks on at the sight of Tooru’s eyes shining brightly in the onset of tears.

“It’s just — you tried to touch me, and you weren’t even thinking you just did it, and that made me happy but it also made sad, and I got so, so angry trying to figure out how that can be because _you’re not supposed to touch me_ , and — and —“ Hajime trails off, shrugging helplessly.

Tooru’s eyes are still bright, but his voice is steady and this time, it doesn’t hurt Hajime hearing it when Tooru says, “I wasn’t thinking because it was you, Iwa-chan,” a pause, “and that doesn’t make it okay, but. But I wanted you to be. Okay. I thought, if Iwa-chan’s alright, it’d be worth it.”

He swallows, repeats himself. “It would be worth it,” he says, and. Hajime understands. Tooru’s gone so long without any other human contact that he wouldn’t mind fading if it meant Hajime wouldn’t.

Suddenly Hajime’s eyes are the ones shiny with tears.

“But you can’t,” he says, dumbly, and Tooru’s about to speak but he cuts in before he can, “you can’t, because I’d mind if you weren’t — okay. I’d mind, so you can’t, not yet.” _Never,_ Hajime means but doesn’t say, because he knows that isn’t fair, not on him, not on Tooru.

“Alright,” Tooru breathes, eyes focused on Hajime, shiny but clear, not a hint of mist in sight. Hajime lets out a breath he didn’t know he was keeping still inside.

“Alright,” he echoes.

 

_age: 12_

Things are better after that. Tooru doesn’t try to touch Hajime again, and Hajime reminds himself that it’s a good thing. It’s good. He visits early enough this year that he can spend both his birthday and Tooru’s at the mountain. The air is soft and easy, the trees singing light and cheerful. Even the wind whispers slow and relaxed, greeting Hajime by name as he makes his way up the mountain steps.

 _Happy birthday, Hajime,_ it calls out, _Hajime, happy birthday!_

And while that’s a bit — odd; he never told Tooru his given name, after all, he’s not particularly upset about it, either. The wind is kind to him, and doesn’t mean any harm. It’s good, Hajime thinks. Things are good.

He even brings a volleyball up to the mountain one day, watches delight and excitement fill Tooru’s face, and they spend the rest of the summer playing, tossing to one another, back and forth. Tooru even enlists help from the trees in twining some of the ancient, lifeless vines across boulders for a makeshift net — Tooru used to play when he was alive, he tells Hajime, a setter, a real good one at that.

“You see, Iwa-chan, it was clearly meant to be,” Tooru sing-songs, pointing back and forth between Hajime and himself in unrestrained glee.

Hajime laughed, but swallowed his surprise when Tooru gave him a few tosses, timing almost perfectly on point for someone he’d never played with and, more importantly, hadn’t touched a volleyball in years. It never even occurred to him to be jealous, filled with nothing but fierce joy and acute pride with every smack of his palm to send the ball flying over the net.

The other spirits wandered over to their makeshift net, too, banding together for causal rallies with him and Tooru, replicating receives clumsily at first, then better and less hesitant by the time Hajime had to go.

“I’ll be back next summer,” he assures, more for the spirits’ benefit than Tooru’s at this point, surrounded by the mountain’s habitats, wispy and tangible both at the top of the mountain steps. The trees stirred a frenzy, the wind keeping the resulting leaves from buffeting Hajime and Tooru’s heads. “I’ll see you soon,” he tells Tooru, looking at him directly, eyes unwavering in their gaze until Tooru echoes back, “See you soon.”

He makes his way down the steps without looking back, this time, and he tells himself that that’s good, tells himself it’s not because he’d race back up for one more toss, one more conversation, one last quiet afternoon in the alcove with Tooru if he looked back and saw the ghostly boy there.

By the time he reaches the road leading back into town, Hajime’s almost convinced himself that it’s true.

 

_age: 13_

Hajime’s thirteen years when he starts to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the way he thinks of Tooru isn’t quite like he thinks about his other friends. While it’s possible that it’s because he’s never really had a friend quite like Tooru before, either, in a lot of ways, Hajime’s pretty sure that’s not really it.

He doesn’t pay a lot of mind to this particular train of thought, though, passing his days with Tooru in the mountain like he’s done the last few summers before, even remembering to bring a spare change of clothes for himself occasionally so he can go swimming in the still lake. Once you get over the fact that it doesn’t, well, move at all, parting around Hajime without the slightest ripple, swimming soon becomes a frequent pastime for him and Tooru.

His spare change of clothes quickly becomes two, though, because Hajime feels sweaty just _watching_ Tooru fit himself into a sweater and jeans when they dry off after swimming. And, entertaining as it may be watching Tooru try and pull himself into Hajime’s biggest, baggiest t-shirt, Tooru is eventually forced to concede that, no, a thirteen year old’s apparel is just not built to accommodate his build, and Hajime laughs, bringing a shirt his uncle doesn’t wear anymore for their successive trips to the glassy lake.

“Doesn’t your uncle get suspicious at all that you’re taking his clothes so often for no reason at all?” Tooru questions one day, and Hajime snorts, shooting back with, “if you don’t like the shirt, you don’t have to wear it,” directing an amused look at Tooru’s wrinkled nose as he regards the purple plaid. Tooru glares, but makes no move to remove the offending shirt, makes no effort to rouse from their spot sprawled by the lake.

Hajime laughs, unfazed, and continues, “he said it’s good that I have a friend to spend my summers with,” because he had, though Hajime doesn’t have any recollection of telling Uncle about Tooru, either. He supposes there was that one time he asked Uncle if he thought ghosts were real; his Uncle had taken him seriously, replying with a vague “I wouldn’t believe it’s an impossibility,” before ruffling a hand through Hajime’s hair and walking towards his study. There was something knowing about the way he’d said it, unflinching and just the slightest hint sad; Hajime’d wondered in passing if there was anyone his Uncle wishes he could talk to again.

“— Iwa-chan?” Tooru finishes, and Hajime blinks, shaking himself out of his reverie as he tries to recall what Tooru just said, coming up blank. Oops.

“Come again?” he mutters, ignoring Tooru’s smug grin at having caught Hajime unawares. _What a kid_ , he thinks, amused.

 _“As I was saying,”_ Tooru repeats, ignoring Hajime now as the latter rolls his eyes, “I was just thinking that it’d be nice if you could come back for more than just the summers.”

Oh.

“ — Not that I’m complaining, or anything,” Tooru quickly amends, “it’s just that. You know. I’d like to appreciate what precious time I have left before you grow taller than me too, that’s all,” he waves off, feigning lightheartedness. It’s a lie; Hajime’d seen the faraway, pensive look when Tooru’d been speaking, but he doesn’t point it out. Because, well, it’s not like he can’t relate.

“I know what you mean,” Hajime says, more subdued than he’d intended, “I think about you in the winter, too.”

And it’s true, Hajime’d thought more than once about Tooru’s eternally winter-appropriate attire, and how it is that in six years of knowing him and he’s never once seen the other sport the outfit during the actual season. _Someday,_ he thinks. Out loud, he says, “You probably can’t handle the cold — you’d definitely be one of those people who get red noses no matter how much they bundle up.”

Tooru lays a hand over his chest. “I’m hurt you think so lowly of me, Iwa-chan,” even though he looks focused again, concentrated on the present; and the way he bites his lower lip, tugging at it thoughtfully straight after makes Hajime believe Tooru’d been thinking thoughts like _Someday_ , too.

Hajime glances up at the sky, squinting his right eye to block out the shock of colour permanently hazing over the mountain. A bead of sweat starts at the top of his head, completely unrelated to the warm weather, when he sees the sky burning red against the horizon. Sunset.

Dusting himself off, Hajime stretches. “You might not have a curfew, but I do,” he explains at Tooru’s questioning glance, “and unlike _some_ people, I actually remember to point out the time, and not let the both of us fall asleep when you know I’m gonna get chewed out for not going back.”

“But it was your birthday?” Tooru phrases it like a question, smiling and batting his eyelashes and Hajime thinks _annoying, so annoying_ , the thought increasing in intensity when, unbidden, his cheeks start heating up at the sight anyway.

Tooru grins, shit-eating and satisfied as he continues, “and today’s my birthday, but out of the goodness of my heart, Iwa-chan, I shall set you free.”

And Hajime hates how his first response to this is _please don’t_ , clamping down on his lip before it can turn traitor like the rest of his head.

 _Not yet,_ his brain whispers to him, over and over, the mantra following him the whole way home.

 

_age: 14_

Hajime finds it harder and harder to wait for summer to come around. He starts finding himself thinking in reverse, catches himself on more than one occasion anxiously tapping on his knee during classes, counting down the days, waiting for the next time he can head home, already.

He wonders when he started thinking of the mountain as home whenever he’s back at the city, instead of the other way around. But time eventually joins his side, and summer comes round once more, Hajime’s birthday and the mountain and Tooru with it. Hajime’s over-excited, tripping up the steps on the way to the shrine, trying to gather his wits into some semblance of composure, shooting accusatory glances at the rustling of the trees, sounding a lot like tittering.

He definitely knows the spirits are laughing at him, falling over themselves as they try and smooth out the furrow in his brow as he climbs. It quickly becomes routine for them to flit around him when he arrives at the mountain’s base, dancing with the wind as they trill out his name, equal parts amused and teasing.

And, by the looks of it, they do it to Tooru too, who Hajime finds already waiting at the top of steps for him even as he starts arriving there a little bit earlier with every passing day.

“Let’s go somewhere different today,” Tooru announces, already pointing at Hajime with hand to stick out his palm, a brightly coloured scarf in already attached to his own wrist. Hajime doesn’t ask him where he got the scarf from.

 _Different from the others,_ Hajime thinks, watching the way Tooru ties a scarf around both of their wrists, the wind helping twist the cloth a little this way, a little that way. The mountain is humming today, practically teeming with life, spirits nudging Hajime along, pulling at the strands of his straw hat to walk closer to Tooru, who himself seems to be exuding a taut, nervous sort of energy.

“What’s up with yo —,” he starts, then stops, watching Tooru let out this little huff of air, like, okay, before swinging their arms gently to and fro, falling back at ease as Hajime lets him, nervous energy gone completely. Distantly, he hears the trees hum in approval and the wind chime out in happiness, but it’s muffled, most of Hajime’s attentions focused on repeating Tooru’s apparent nervousness and the courage it took to swing their arms together, side-by-side like some cheesy rom-com.

Two thoughts emerge from this repeated mental image. The first being _like a couple,_ burning the tips of his ears as the second thought, _that’s really cute_ , follows immediately after. Hajime swallows.

“What’s wrong, Iwa-chan?” Tooru is all but glowing, the very picture of confidence as he smiles at Iwaizumi now, tugging them towards the right side of the mountain, along a path Hajime can’t remember if he’s been down before or not. Iwaizumi pauses before answering, letting himself speak only when he’s sure he won’t say something dumb like _is this a date?_ or _it’d be nice if you could smile like that for always_.

“Why’re you smiling like that,” is what he ends up saying, “and why do I not know where we’re going?” realising the truth of his words even as they exit his throat, certain now that this is not, in fact, a path he’s encountered in the past.

“Well, Iwa-chan, you’ll just have to wait and see,” is the only answer he gets, shaking his head, a little confused but very fond regardless, a smile of his own tugging at him when Tooru actually freaking skips as they make another turn, to the left this time.

And Hajime sees why, when they both come to a stop (perfectly synchronised, this time). It’s a clearing, no different from some of the ones Hajime’s seen scattered throughout the mountain before, but. The sky above it is dark and velvety, a patchwork of fuzzy, pulsing lights glowing above like a kaleidoscope vision of stars.

“Oh,” Hajime breathes, and thinks he sees Tooru beam even wider at the utterance. Hajime looks and looks, head tilted up at the make-believe sky. “They look like stars.”

“I like stars,” Tooru says, “they make me feel less alone,” and Hajime’s fingers twitch in response, already prepared to slip between Tooru’s own, only just holding himself back. Tooru turns to look at him, eyes crinkled and glittery and near-black in the darkness, and. Hajime figures it out.

 _Tooru,_ he thinks. _Hey, Tooru_.

Hajime pulls off his hat, pressing it in front of Tooru’s face so he can lean his forehead against it, dimly registering Tooru tipping his head down slightly so he can, and. Hajime exhales; it catches between his teeth before it slips out of his throat, ragged and more wrecked than he’d expected.

_I like you._

“Tooru,” he says.

_Hey, Tooru, I think I like you._

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru echoes back. Then, “happy birthday.”

Hajime doesn’t respond, but it’s alright, Tooru wasn’t looking for an answer. They stay like that for a long time, and Tooru doesn’t complain once about not being able to see the lights above. When they head back, Hajime lifts the hat from Tooru’s face and props it onto his head.

“You can keep that,” he tells Tooru, swinging their arms first himself the whole walk back to the steps.

 

_age: 15_

Things get easier and harder all at the same time once Hajime realises he likes Tooru. Easier, because it explains a lot, and Hajime knows now that he’s liked Tooru for a long, long time. But it also makes it harder, because now that he knows he can’t just. Not know it. It trails after him everywhere he goes, thinks he hears snatches of Tooru’s name in the wind even when he’s back at school. Sees fuzzy, pulsing lights when he closes his eyes, cold air and the words _I like you, I like you_ curling beneath his eyelids when he tries to go to sleep.

Hajime’s fifteenth birthday starts bright and early — his uncle’s gone for a couple days, leaving Hajime to man the house while he’s gone, tone serious but eyes gleaming with bemusement when he tells Hajime “so make sure you come back here at least _once_ while I’m gone, okay,” to Hajime’s speechless embarrassment as he’d walked his uncle out of the house, locking up as he goes before heading down the road, through town until he reaches the path leading up to the mountain.

He’s secretly pleased and more than a little surprised to find Tooru at the bottom of the steps this time around, blinking blearily before bursting into what Hajime can only call a sunny expression when he spots Hajime.

“What are you doing up this early?” he asks Tooru, ignoring the more obvious _at the bottom of the steps, too_ and the embarrassing realisation accompanying it that Tooru’d probably gone to sleep at the foot of the steps, if his ruffled, drowsy appearance is anything to go by.

“Happy birthday, Iwa-chan,” Tooru greets him, ignoring Hajime’s previous question entirely. The wind mimics him as they start to make their way up the stairs, chiming prettily _Hajime, happy birthday, happy birthday!_ as Tooru stretches, not bothering to cover a yawn. Hajime restrains the urge to cover it for him.

 _Easy, now,_ he tells himself. A sprite-like spirit flies past, shooting Hajime a mildly reproving look as though it knew what he was thinking, and Hajime smiles weakly, guiltily. Reaching into his bag, Hajime pulls out a bento he’d packed up before he left, handing it over to Tooru as the latter raises his eyebrows, refusing to lower itself even as he pulls out a bento for himself.

“I haven’t had breakfast yet,” he says simply.

“Thank you,” is Tooru’s equally nonchalant reply.

Wordlessly, they trail towards the little alcove, slouched near each other as they eat in silence. It’s comfortable, exactly like always, whether or not they’re speaking, and they spent the rest of the day there, switching to various degrees of reclining as the sun makes its way higher up into the sky.

Hajime’s lying down, almost asleep when Tooru pipes up suddenly. “What’s it like in the city?” he asks, not looking at Hajime when he glances at Tooru; focusing instead on something indeterminable above them. “Busy,” Hajime answers, sitting up.

Silence ticks past for a few minutes, then Tooru speaks again. “I think I’d like to see it,” he says quietly, and Hajime freezes. “— and you,” Tooru continues, “Maybe in the winter? I don’t really care how busy it is; I just want to see you.”

“I’m right here,” Hajime says, helplessly. _Look at me,_ he means, _I’m right here. Look at me._

And Tooru does. He whispers back, “I know,” reaching a hand out, and Hajime should move away, tell him to stop, but. He doesn’t want him to stop, wants Tooru to touch him, never wants Tooru to stop touching him, wishes to the spirits and the trees and the wind that he could.

Just once.

Tooru’s hand halts just before Hajime’s face, fingers framing the slant of his cheeks, palm almost touching the ridge of his jaw. “I know,” he says, again, and Hajime whispers, “I wish you could.” Tooru smiles at him, beautiful and honest and sad. “I’d like that,” he says, lowering his hand. Hajime tries not to chase after it with his face; settles for following it with his gaze instead.

They don’t mention it again for the rest of the day.

 

_age: 16_

Their next summer is more subdued than any they had before, full of bated stares and heavy breaths to compensate for a lack of physical touch, the atmosphere heady like even the mountain holds its breath for them. Hajime wishes it wouldn’t, there’s not much point, but doesn’t tell it that. Appreciates the hope, even if it doesn’t come from him. He and Tooru don’t play volleyball very often anymore; and Hajime’s far too caught up in the wide expanse of Tooru’s back to go swimming, heart beating slow and sure somewhere between his chest and his throat, held there by the sliver of skin when Tooru’s slipping back on a shirt.

Instead they walk, sometimes loudly, other times softly, and the wind brushes their hair and raises goosebumps along Hajime’s arms; the trees keeping the other spirits at bay most days, letting them have their space. Tooru pulls out the old scarf, occasionally, and Hajime’s taken it to mean that he wants to choose where they spend their day.

Come Tooru’s birthday, however, Hajime insists he decide.

“C’mon Tooru, hurry up, let’s go!” he calls out, surprised at how far behind Tooru is along the steps — normally they match each other’s every footstep. It’s another habit they’ve fallen into without Hajime’s realising, slipping in seamlessly with other routines Hajime _has_ caught onto, like the way Tooru now meets him at the bottom of the steps so he and Hajime can walk up together.

“Coming, coming ~” Tooru sings along after him, steps languid and flowing, almost lazy as he makes his way up the steps. _Like a cat,_ Hajime thinks, even though the lulling, melodic quality to his voice suggests anything but; it’s one the more obvious tells to Tooru’s vaguely inhuman state.

Hajime starts walking just before Tooru can catch up — he’s been doing that a lot, lately. And he doesn’t mean anything bad by it, per se, it’s just that it’s. Easier, a little. It means they can match each other’s footfalls and not have to worry about Hajime unknowingly reaching for Tooru’s hand, or Tooru’s increasing propensity for stopping as abruptly and unexpectedly as he can, nearly tempting fate into having Hajime walk into him; always settling for the steady, constant inhale and exhale of Hajime’s breaths against his neck, instead.

“Here again today?”

Tooru’s voice floats one, maybe two paces behind him, and Hajime tilts his head, just a little, but Tooru’s already continuing. “Hey, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime thinks this is an odd time for Tooru to seek validation, but he doesn’t question it; Hajime’s been a little odd himself lately, too. He glances back at Tooru, just for a second, pulling together the right words before answering.

“I like it there,” Hajime says, and it’s true, but it’s not the entire reason he’s going there today. Nerves skitter under his skin, synapses firing from his brain all the way to the tips of his fingers, lighting Hajime up from the inside, out. He takes a breath.

“Besides,” he continues, voice pitched lower than he’d meant it to, sounding far more intimate than Hajime knew he could sound, but that’s alright. That’s alright, Hajime tells himself, swallowing. “It’s your favourite spot, isn’t it.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from behind him, and something tugs at him as he slows his steps, realising belatedly that the _something_ was Tooru’s footsteps, falling slower and slower; Hajime had subsequently — habitually — adjusted his own in response.He thinks he hears Tooru exhale, or sigh, he’s not sure which; tilts his head to the side, waits a beat, then two —

— “Iwa-chan,” Tooru breathes out, and Hajime corrects him, murmurs “Hajime,” because he has nothing left to lose anymore. There’s not much point in keeping it from Tooru. The wind gathers around his shoulders, cradling him briefly as they sing soft songs of approval into his ears before drifting away.

“Hajime,” Tooru repeats, and Hajime wonders if Tooru heard the wind, wonders whether it spoke anything different to Tooru as he continues, “I think…”

They slip into the alcove, and Hajime slides to the floor, leaning against a tree; feels the gnarled trunk rumble faintly in response. Tooru never finished his sentence. “Hmm?” Hajime prods, wrapping his arms around his knees — he’s gotten a lot bigger since he was eight — so Tooru can slip in beside him. “You were saying something,” he reminds more distinctly, eyes drawn to the spirit peering from the trees behind Tooru. _Don’t let him touch you_ , it mouths to Hajime, leaving him to ponder over when it was, exactly, that they started fearing Tooru instigating physical contact instead of the other way around.

“Nah,” Tooru hums, following Hajime’s gaze momentarily before facing forward again. “It’s not really important.”

Hajime doesn’t believe him but he doesn’t press the issue, leans into Tooru instead, mindful they don’t touch, before breathing in deeply, feels Tooru shudder beneath him. Hajime closes his eyes. “Happy birthday,” he starts to sing, opening his eyes just a fraction to take in the pale junction between Tooru’s neck and shoulder. “Tooru,” he adds after he’s finished the song.

“Hajime,” Tooru replies, and his voice is small, light and somewhat disbelieving. Tooru shifts, and Hajime leans back up so Tooru can recline more comfortably against the tree. Tooru closes his eyes, and Hajime watches his breaths even out before dipping into the soft sighs of sleep.

He sleeps for almost the whole afternoon; Hajime doesn’t wake him. And it doesn’t really feel like the right time just then, so Hajime leaves his present for Tooru next to the latter when it’s time to leave, hand deliberating in front of Tooru for a moment, then another, before Hajime draws it back to his side and slips away.

 

_age: 17_

“I can’t believe you never told me about this before,” Hajime tells Tooru, probably for the tenth time as they walk through the underground cavern, scarves tying their hands together. Tooru grins. “Happy birthday, Hajime,” he responds, also probably for the tenth time.

It’s Hajime’s seventeenth birthday and there is, apparently, a festival for the spirits happening just past the cavern as there has been, supposedly, every year. “It opens up into a larger space,” Tooru explains, “if you slip through this little crevice just — _so_ —,” and then Tooru is gone and Hajime is scrambling, scraping himself a little on the rock as he hurries to keep Tooru’s pace, mindful of the scarf pulling them together.

Spirit festivals don’t look much different from human ones, though the wares various stalls are peddling wouldn’t be found in any gathering of the human variety. _Songs for the sea_ , one sign reads out, while another spirit trills out _the feeling of starlight!_ over and over again. At least, Hajime assumes it’s a spirit; none of the others surrounding them look the way they do in the forest.

Tooru laughs a little. “They like to dress up for these things,” he waves a hand toward the distinctly human-shaped figures hovering all about the festival, “you know. Pretend.”

 _Is that what we’re doing here, too_ , Hajime thinks but doesn’t say. Pulling at the scarf, he tugs Tooru along, stopping in front of a sign proclaiming the words _Dream Smells._ Tooru motions towards the spirit vendor, who offers Hajime what looks like a pearly, blue-flamed candle.

“Well, go on,” Tooru makes another motion with his fingers, _shoo-shoo_ , this time at Hajime. Hajime bobs his head forward a little, sniffing at the oddly coloured flame. Steps back, blinking. Looks up at Tooru, who shrugs. “It’s supposed to smell like whatever helps you fall asleep best,” he says, “to help, like. To help you have good dreams, I guess.” A pause. “Why?” and Tooru’s teasing now, “what is it you smelled? "

_Your hair._

“My mom’s agedashi tofu,” Hajime answers, raising an eyebrow when Tooru narrows his eyes at him, reaching for the candle himself. Hajime almost doesn’t give it to him until Tooru says “they smell differently for everyone — now hand it over, you liar,” and Hajime sheepishly passes it along.

“Milk bread,” Tooru declares a few seconds later. He’s also blushing, though, already tugging Hajime towards another stall, so Hajime feels assured that Tooru wasn’t truthful, either.

A rustle of movement zooms past Hajime before he can read the sign of the stall Tooru was pulling him towards. It’s a kid, or a spirit resembling a kid — no older than seven or eight, Hajime guesses — dashing through the crowd, tripping himself on a pebble, letting out a startled yelp as he does. Hajime reaches for him, but Tooru gets there first, steadying the child and nudging him back on his way, waving as he does.

Hajime smiles at the sight, but then something curious happens. Bubbles of light start floating up from somewhere around Tooru’s feet. “Hajime,” Tooru calls for his attention, and Hajime jolts at the tears in his eyes, so at odds with the radiant smile bursting at the seams on his cheeks.

“Tooru?” he asks.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Tooru begins, taking a step closer, then another. “But sometimes — very rarely — but sometimes, an actual human happens to make it here. Don’t ask me how; I don’t really know.” Bubbles are flying faster, now, shooting straight to the top of the large cavern, slipping through the rock and disappearing. Hajime feels something warm wrap around his hands, watches in horror and amazement as Tooru lifts his hands, cradled in Tooru’s own.

“The kid’s human,” Hajime chokes out, as pearls begin to gather higher up, now, around Tooru’s ankles. His feet are already gone.

“Don’t,” Tooru begins, bringing Hajime’s hands to his lips. They’re soft and a little chapped as they kiss Hajime’s knuckles. “Don’t regret this,” Tooru continues. _Don’t regret me,_ he means. “Because I don’t,” and then Hajime’s moving, ripping his hands out of Tooru’s so he can wrap them around Tooru himself.

Tooru cries out, joyous and natural and devastating as he pulls Hajime closer as well, buries his face in Hajime’s hair. “Hajime,” Tooru says, over and over again, _“Hajime.”_

Hajime doesn’t speak, he can’t, presses his lips against Tooru’s neck against his pulse, kissing the curve of his jaw. Tooru frames a hand around Hajime’s chin, tilts his face up so they can kiss properly, and. It’s soft, so soft and just the slightest bit salty, fresh tears brimming from Hajime’s eyes to mix with Tooru’s own.

“Tooru,” he gasps.

 _I like you, I like you, I love you_.

“Hajime,” Tooru laughs, breathless and breathy all at once, “Hajime. I love you. Happy birthday. I love you.”

But Hajime’s shaking his head, trying to pull Tooru closer as Tooru slips something into his hand, lights all around them, lights everywhere. “Thank you,” Tooru whispers, lips brushing roughly against Hajime’s ear, and Hajime’s tugging him down for one last kiss.

And then he’s gone, spirits gradually crowding around Hajime as he cries, leaving a circle of space around him as they take up a soft, chiming song.

Looking down, Hajime looks at what Tooru had dropped into his hand. It’s a stone, green and shot through with a murky brown, the very same he’d tossed at Tooru all those years ago —“It matches our eyes,” Tooru had told him, delighted by the fact, not two weeks before — wrapped in a leather chain; the kind you wrap around your neck like a necklace. Hajime’d gotten it for Tooru’s birthday the year before.

And now he’s gone.

Hajime stays in his spot for a long time, unmoving. The spirits continue their song, speeding up and slowing down, but never falling silent.

The lilting bell-ring of their voices sound a lot like Tooru’s laugh.

 

_age: 18_

Hajime’s eighteenth birthday is spent in silence. He sits in the small alcove on the mountain, alone; the wind blowing all surrounding noise away from his grassy spot, the trees standing in solemn vigil around him. He looks up at the sky before reaching beside him, hands grasping Tooru’s rock, the leather wrapping it worn tattered and thin by constant contact, calloused fingers running the material raw.

The stone is warm to the touch, even though Hajime had left it alone almost the entire afternoon. For a moment, Hajime allows himself to imagine that it’s Tooru who did it, thinks of old things he’d told Hajime years and years ago.

_I’m a spirit of this mountain, you see, kinda like a ghost. Basically, I used to be a human but then I died, and so tragic an event it was that the wind sang my name, the birds all threatened to flutter away, so the wise old trees decided to bring me back._

_Because the trees are kind, and the wind remembers my name._

_Tooru._

The leaves behind him start to rustle again, soft and unsure. Hajime thinks that the spirits of the mountain, the trees and the wind, are such fickle things, taking life away and handing it back conditionally as they pleased. Leaves continue to rustle, louder and nearer, now.

Hajime almost imagines he hears the impact of footsteps accompanying it.

The spirits and the wind and the trees are very fickle things, after all, and Hajime wouldn’t be surprised if they were playing tricks on him, even as the more reasonable part of him argues they wouldn’t do that; not to him, not on his birthday.

The rustling is almost directly behind him now, and Hajime finds it suddenly very difficult to breathe. _It’s just the trees,_ he tells himself, _it’s only the wind._ But.

A quiet breeze singing out Hajime’s name as foliage parts, leaving the entrance to the alcove uncovered. _It’s only the spirits,_ Hajime thinks. Still.

“Tooru,” he whispers, and the rustling stops completely.

Hajime turns around.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading 'till the end omg xx
> 
> let me know what you guys thought?


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